


And the moonbeams kiss the sea

by HyacinthsSoul



Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Kissing, Lack of Communication, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24346732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyacinthsSoul/pseuds/HyacinthsSoul
Summary: Let us all forget a certain Episode 13 angst-ridden camping trip and imagine that our boys communicated about their feelings a little sooner, and a little better. Kissing ensues.
Relationships: Bohn/Duen (My Engineer), Duen Krisada Rattananumchok/Bon Sirikarnkul, King/Ram (My Engineer)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 381
Collections: All





	And the moonbeams kiss the sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kari_Kurofai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/gifts).



> “The sunlight clasps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?”  
> ― Percy Bysshe Shelley

Everyone thinks they’ve gone further than they have. Everyone. And Duen hates it.

He’s never kissed his boyfriend, yet their friends make a joke out of guessing which of them is penetrating the other.

He’s never kissed his boyfriend, yet complete strangers at their university are posting pornographic stories about them.

He’s never kissed his boyfriend, but his boyfriend has kissed...well, Duen doesn’t know. Five, ten, a dozen, dozens? Many. A jealous part of him wants to ask for a tally but he forces it silent, knowing he’d only regret it if he heard the answer.

He’s never kissed anyone. 

Is it so wrong to want it to be special when it happens?

The trouble is that Duen hasn’t quite worked through what “special” means to him. He only knows what it’s not: Not in public with others watching. Not while either party is intoxicated. Not twisted awkwardly sideways in a car after an argument and an unwanted hickey. Not while holding a sharp kitchen knife and minding a hot pan on the stove. Not stolen. Not wheedled out of him before he’s ready. 

Definitely not in bed, where a kiss could so easily escalate at a pace Duen’s inexperience leaves him ill-equipped to handle.

~

“Do you think I’m a prude?” he asks Ram. 

Ram chokes on his sip of plum soda. Once he recovers with the help of a few brisk whacks between the shoulder blades from Duen, he gives his friend a silent but eloquent look.

 _Don’t ask stupid questions,_ that look says. _If you need to talk, talk._

It’s rare for the two of them to be alone these days. Their friend group tends to travel as a pack at uni, and Duen’s time outside of class is increasingly taken up with study groups and with Bohn. He realizes with a pang that he has no idea whether Ram is still struggling with his coursework or whether last week’s mysterious family conflict (which he’s still not talking about, not to Duen anyway) has been resolved. Yet Ram hadn’t hesitated to drop everything on short notice when Duen texted him asking to meet at an off-campus cafe.

“I’ve been a rotten friend lately,” Duen blurts out remorsefully. “I haven’t even asked if you’re OK. I’m so sorry, Ram.”

Ram lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Mostly OK,” he says. “Don’t worry. Who says you’re a prude? If it’s Bohn—” His dark brows draw together in a threatening glare.

“No, no,” Duen says hastily. “He hasn’t pressured me, at least not the way you’re thinking. He takes No for an answer. It’s just…” He sighs and forces the words out. “I know he wants to kiss me and I keep backing away. And I can tell it makes him sad.”

 _Sad_ isn’t quite the right word for it, but Duen isn’t ready to share with anyone—even Ram, who would never repeat it—that each time he refuses Bohn a kiss, he sees a hurt and vulnerable child looking out of his boyfriend’s eyes. He also sees a hunger so deep it looks like starvation, a famine of the heart that Duen’s nurturing soul yearns to shower with attention and feed with love. If only he could be certain that he won’t be completely devoured the instant he offers the tiniest crumb.

“Maybe I grew up with too many fairytales,” he says wistfully, “where first kisses are always a magical moment under a full moon, or on a footbridge over a beautiful stream.”

“Or unconscious in a glass coffin,” Ram deadpans.

Duen wrinkles his nose. “I’m not Sleeping Beauty.” 

If anyone had played the part of Sleeping Beauty it was Bohn, sweet-faced and relaxed in his drunken state, his plush lips parted just enough to capture in a kiss. But Duen had resisted the urge. He even regrets the leg-waxing, which had seemed like a harmless prank at the time—a little payback for being forced to drop everything and haul Bohn’s drunken ass home from the bar, his boozy breath wafting across Duen’s face and his ever-wandering hands trying to pinch Duen’s ass. 

Duen never dreamed that Bohn would draw the worst possible conclusion the morning after. How could Bohn believe that he’d force himself on an incapacitated man? He’s a gentleman! That’s Bohn all over, though, leaping to conclusions and courting furious indignation without a moment’s pause for reflection. His boyfriend is an impetuous man-child, delightful and maddening by turns, a human whirlwind of spontaneous smiles and kneejerk reactions. 

When Duen is absolutely frank with himself, he has to admit these contradictions are part of what delights him about Bohn. He’d burst into Duen’s narrow, dutiful life like a Bang Fai rocket, laughing, teasing and vibrant, larger than life and twice as handsome, and nothing has been the same since.

“I do want to kiss him,” Duen confesses. “But I want the moment to be right. I don’t want to be grabbed in Aisle Five just because Bohn thinks I look like the smiling bear on the Koala March cookie package.” 

Ram tilts his head consideringly. “He’s not wrong, though.”

“I know, it’s the eyes.” Frustrated, Duen fiddles with the straw in his tamarind drink, poking irritably at pieces of floating ice. “I just want it to be memorable—not only for me for Bohn too. It’s not just my first kiss, it’s ours as a couple.”

Across the table Ram sits up straighter, squares his shoulders, and places both fisted hands on the table before him. It’s a posture Duen recognizes as Ram forcing himself out of his comfort zone, steeling himself to talk more than comes naturally—an effort he makes only for his closest friends, and even then rarely. Duen leans forward in anticipation, eager for any words of advice his taciturn friend has to offer.

“I kissed King,” Ram says.

Duen nearly drops his drink cup into his lap. “You. What. King. _What_?”

One corner of Ram’s mouth twitches, although whether from amusement or embarrassment Duen can’t discern. He’s still too taken aback by this revelation, even when Ram repeats it.

“I kissed King.” Ram taps his fists on the tabletop once, twice, three times before continuing. “I think I’m in love with King.” Another two taps. A scowl. “Not think. I am.”

This time Duen keeps firm hold of his beverage but he can feel his jaw drop. “I know I’ve been distracted,” he admits, “but I didn’t realize I was _blind_. When did this happen? How? And does he feel the same way?”

“He’s not sure yet. He’s confused.” Ram inflicts another series of soft thumps on the unoffending table. “When I went missing last week? He took me in, dogs and all. Even though they terrify him. He said...” His face, usually so stony, softens into a tenderness that Duen has never seen before. “He said I’d be lonely without them. He cared more about me than himself.”

Duen blinks. “That’s where you’ve been all this time? At King’s?”

“Yes. At first because I didn’t want my father to find me. But now…”

“Now you have feelings.”

“Yes.” Ram drops his gaze to his clenched fists, which he forces open and splays flat on the tabletop instead. “He hears what I don’t say.”

 _And no one else ever has,_ Duen thinks. No wonder Ram has lost his heart. He must feel like a foreigner in a strange land, wandering all his life without encountering a single person who understands his language. Until now. 

“I’m glad,” he says softly. “So glad for you. I hope King doesn’t keep you waiting too long for an answer.”

“I don’t mind. He needs time to sort out how he feels.” Ram levels a meaningful gaze at Duen. “King is worth the wait. So are you.”

Duen’s eyes sting with sudden tears. That’s it exactly, he realizes—the sore point his quiet friend has somehow singled out with unerring precision. 

He wants Bohn to believe he’s worth the wait.

~

Bohn is fucking awful at waiting. 

“You asked him to move in,” King says incredulously. “Are you _insane?_ You’ve been dating two weeks, Bohn. Did you suddenly become a lesbian when I wasn’t looking? First date, dinner and a movie—second date, rent a moving truck?”

They’re eating a greasy hangover-cure breakfast at a diner near campus, Bohn in desperate need of sustenance after a night on the town with Tee, Mek, and Boss. Bohn keeps peering mournfully at his phone lamenting the lack of texts and cute stickers from Duen, his expression growing more petulant and woeful each time.

“When it’s right, it’s right,” he insists.

“With all due respect for your eternal love of Duen,” King says, “you’re a dumbass.”

Bohn claps a hand to his chest as if shot in the heart. “Et tu, King?”

It doesn’t actually bother him to be called a dumbass by King. Everyone is a dumbass compared to the God King, whose I.Q. is almost too high to measure. It’s of some small consolation to Bohn that King is turning out to be every bit as fucking stupid about relationships as everybody else in their friend group. 

Bohn cannot believe that _Mek and Boss_ have now become their romantic role models. Mek and Boss are getting more action than he is. He wants to die of shame at the very thought.

“You don’t know yet if you’re capable of sharing a bathroom or a bed for a weekend, much less a life,” King points out. “You need to slow your roll, Bohn, or you’re going to scare Duen off before you’ve even kissed.”

Bohn throws a patongo right in his face but King, unfazed, snatches the deep-fried dough right out of the air, dunks it in his coffee, and crams it into his mouth. 

“I hope you choke,” Bohn grumbles. In retaliation he takes the last two patongos from the plate between them and shoves both into his face simultaneously, giving King a triumphant smirk.

“You look like a squirrel with its cheek pouches full. I’m sure Duen will be delighted to hear you can deep-throat doughnut sticks, though. It bodes well for that bedroom compatibility.”

Not even dignifying that with a reply, Bohn sneaks another glance at his phone. Still nothing. He takes a quick selfie without wiping away the crumbs around his mouth and sends it to Duen with the caption **Patongos are tasty but I’d rather eat you.**

Ten seconds later he gets a one-word reply: **Pervert.**

Another ten seconds: **Use your napkin.**

Bohn obeys the texted instruction and sends another selfie, this one featuring an exasperated eyeroll and captioned **Yes Dear** , before turning his attention back to King. “Are you going to finish that?” he asks, pointing to King’s half-eaten bowl of khao tom.

“You can’t possibly still be hungry.” King pushes the bowl toward him anyway, though, and watches as Bohn tucks in. “Why do you always eat like you expect it to be taken away from you at any minute? I hope you don’t just wolf down your food when Duen cooks for you, because any cook worth his salt would be insulted.”

“Hey, I’m not an animal. I always tell him how good it is.” The khao tom dispatched, Bohn leans back against the padded booth and pats his midsection appreciatively. Truth be told he’s stuffed uncomfortably full now, but Bohn’s never been one to leave food on the table when he can fit it in his belly.

King is still eyeing him with a dubious expression over the rim of his coffee cup. “If you approach sex the same way you do food, Duen’s going to run away screaming and your two-week relationship will never make it to three.”

 _“_ Don’t say that! _”_ Bohn sits bolt upright and this time when he clutches a hand to his racing heart, it’s not in jest. “Why the _hell_ would you say that? Are you trying to curse me? _Take it back._ ” His voice is climbing in both volume and pitch, and King hastily raises a placating hand.

“I’m sorry,” his friend says, his voice gone gentle now. “Bohn, come on. I didn’t mean it, OK?”

“It’s not fucking OK.” Bohn crosses his arms over his chest and glowers, knowing that he probably looks childish with his brows drawn and his jaw pushed forward in a belligerent pout. But he’s too incensed to care. “Who asked you to judge my relationship anyway?”

“You did, dumbass.” But King’s voice is still kind. “Look, all I meant is that you need to pace yourself with Duen so you don’t spook him. Ram says he’s never dated anyone before.”

“Ram says?” Bohn echoes in an insinuating tone, mostly for the pleasure of watching King duck his head and blush. “Ram speaks now?”

A few mornings ago he’d stopped by King’s place unannounced to pick up a textbook he’d forgotten there, only to find a flustered King nesting on the sofa while Ram and three dogs slept soundly in his bed. King continues to insist it’s a purely platonic friendship but Bohn is calling bullshit on that. Those two have elevated eyefucking to an Olympic sport. 

“Shut up,” King mutters. “Yes, Ram speaks. And he’s Duen’s best friend so you might want to pay attention when he does.”

“He won’t talk to me, though, so you have to.” Bohn gives King his best pleading-puppy look, complete with widened eyes and a sad, worried little furrow between his brows. “Tell me, na? Na na na?”

King sets down his coffee cup and holds up the tab their server left on the table along with the last beverage refill. “Give me an incentive.”

“Fine.” Bohn grabs the bill and glances at it, thinking it’s a cheap price to pay if King has any useful intel for his courtship of Duen.

King deliberates for a moment, then holds up a hand to tick items off on his fingers. “First of all, he’s never had a real kiss. Not even a casual one. No spin-the-bottle games, no kissing cousins, nothing. Your cheek kisses are probably the closest he’s come to a romantic kiss.

“Second, Duen is a romantic. Ram says that when they have movie nights, Duen picks nothing but rom-coms and Disney movies. Ram got so sick of it that Duen had to bribe him with a double feature of _101 Dalmatians_ and _Lady and the Tramp._ Duen already knows his _wedding colors_ , Bohn. He’s got a Pinterest board of wedding decor.

“Third,” and here King makes a point of waggling his middle finger meaningfully, “Duen’s an innocent. He might’ve swooned over those fan fictions about the two of you, but he didn’t understand half the terminology. No way has that boy watched any porn.

“Fourth, Duen is very sheltered. He’s never lived away from home, and because his father is away a lot for his military duty, Duen's expected to be around to look out for his sister and mom. Between that and how serious Duen is about studying medicine, he hasn’t had much fun in his life. 

“Finally—pay attention, Bohn, this one’s important—Ram says Duen’s dad is a real macho-man type. He rags on Duen all the time about being more ‘manly,’ always asking when he’s going to bring home a girlfriend. Until you came along Duen was so deep in the closet he could practically see Narnia. Even if he loves you, being public about it won’t come easy for him.”

Bohn raises his eyebrows in astonishment as King finally runs out of fingers and words. “Ram said all that? You’re so full of shit.”

King snorts. “Are you kidding? Ram said about ten words and I filled in the gaps. You’re lucky I’m a good interpreter.” 

“Uh-huh. Been getting a lot of practice, have you? While he’s sleeping in your bed?” Bohn leans across the table for a close-up view of King’s reaction, marked by blushing, the raking of hands through hair, and gratuitous lip-biting. “Seriously, King, what’s going on with you two?”

“I wish I knew.” Always a mirror to his soul, King’s sensitive features reflect his rapidly shifting emotions: uncertainty, excitement, fear, hope. “I always thought…” He shakes his head, his silky hair promptly falling over one eye; he pushes it back impatiently. “Don’t laugh, OK?” he pleads.

Bohn reaches out to pat his hand, stilling King’s restless fingers. “Never when it really counts,” he says firmly. 

King studies his face for a long moment, as if measuring his sincerity, then nods. 

“I always thought I’d know,” he says. “Don’t they say that when you meet the right one, you’ll just know? Isn’t that how it was for you with Duen?”

“It was,” Bohn agrees cautiously.

“But I _didn’t_ know,” King says, his voice soft with bewilderment. “How could I not know? He was right in front of me for _weeks_. Right there. And I thought oh, this guy’s so mysterious. Oh, he’s an odd one, I want to know more about him. I want to make him talk. But I never thought oh, I could be attracted to him.”

“So what happened?”

“Some family issues for him. Things I can’t share. But he came to me and he _cried_ , Bohn. He cried, and I—” King pauses, that quicksilver flow of emotions crossing his face again, shame and wistfulness and regret. “I held him. That’s all it was supposed to be. He was crying, and I held him, and one second I was thinking ‘my poor Nong’ and the next…we were kissing. I think he initiated it,” he adds, “but it doesn’t matter. It never should have happened. Not when he was upset and vulnerable and had nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Bohn stretches out a long arm to swat King on the head. “And you call _me_ a dumbass?”

“Hey!” King shifts uncomfortably. “I know, all right? It was an asshole move.”

Bohn lets out a long-suffering sigh. “No, I mean you’re a dumbass to think it happened because he was upset. It happened because you’ve been flirting your ass off since the day you met, you idiot. There’s a betting pool on it.”

“I have?” His friend’s bewilderment only deepens, his brows knitting as he stares uncomprehending at Bohn. “There are bets?”

“For fuck’s sake, you’re supposed to be the genius. You do special tutoring sessions for him. You take selfies with him. You showed him your special sanctuary. You gave him a _plant_ , King. From you that’s practically an engagement ring. And don’t even get me started on how you stare at his tattoos, because it’s just fucking embarassing. Sometimes you drool.”

“Screw you, I do not. Hey!” King objects as Bohn snags his phone. “That’s private.”

“Shut up, you brought this on yourself.” Rapidly tapping and scrolling, Bohn finds what he’s looking for and holds it out triumphantly. “Ha! I knew it. Look at your ten most recent photos, King. How many are Ram? Count ‘em and weep.”

Grabbing the phone back, King mutters to himself as he counts. “...six, seven...shit, eight? Really?” He swipes down to older photos two more times, looking genuinely stunned. “Shit. I’m worse than a fucking stalker. How did I never notice?”

Taking pity on him, Bohn gives him a rough brotherly thump on the shoulder. “You probably weren’t ready to,” he says. “You’re always talking about how plants need a chance to grow before they can flower, right? You should listen to yourself.”

The smile that dawns on King’s face is bright with revelation. “Yeah. Yeah, I should.” It widens into a full-blown grin. “And so should you, not-so-dumbass. Duen might be a late bloomer, but he’ll get there if you don’t try to force it.”

“Just so I get to—”

“Make a deflowering joke and you die, Bohn.”

“Let me just pay this check so we can go.”

~

King lets himself into his condo cautiously, first cracking the door just an inch or two to listen for panting and barking. Nothing. Somehow relieved and disappointed at the same time, he pushes it open wide, telling himself firmly that he’s grateful to have the place to himself for a while. He heads toward the kitchenette, figuring the Post-it pad on the fridge is the likeliest place for Ram to have left a note.

Instead he finds the man himself, framed in the light of the open refrigerator. Ram turns, surprised, and King sees with a pang that he’s wearing a shirt borrowed from King’s own closet, a black tee with BLOOM WHERE YOU’RE PLANTED spelled out in flowers.

“Where are the dogs?” King asks.

“At the groomer.” Ram’s face is anxious, tentative. “P’, about the other night—”

The kitchenette is small; it takes King only three steps to walk right into his arms. “Do you want to kiss me?” he asks.

“Always,” says Ram.

~

 **Idiot Bohn**  
Can you come over?  
Please?  
I miss you.

 **Duen**  
I’m not sleeping over again.

 **Idiot Bohn**  
That’s OK.  
I just need to see you.  
It’s important.

Duen taps lightly on Bohn’s door, but when no answer is immediately forthcoming, he fishes out the spare key he now wears on a chain around his neck. He’d refused Bohn’s pleas to move in but softened the blow by accepting the key—such a small concession, but enough to draw out Bohn’s sweetest smile. 

(Bohn’s sweetest smile is a sight to behold, almost too bright and beautiful to look upon. It does things to Duen’s heart that previously only happened upon seeing tiny kittens, giggling babies, and the CopBas kiss compilation on YouTube.) 

“Bohn, I’m here, where are—” Duen’s voice falters as he pushes the condo door wide open. 

Oh. _Oh._

All the lamps are dimmed and the curtains closed, but the condo isn’t dark. Instead it’s aglow with a thousand tiny lights, most of them giving shape to a fairy-light heart that takes up the entire opposite wall. 

Duen brings a hand to his mouth to hold back a little cry. At his feet, two winding rows of battery-powered tealights define a pathway that he’s clearly meant to follow. They lead, he is surprised and a little relieved to realize, not to the bedroom but to the kitchen.

After kicking off his shoes, Duen walks the illuminated path for the short journey to the next room, which is not so much aglow as _ablaze_. There are flickering candles everywhere: the countertops, the kitchen island, the dining table, the top of the refrigerator. Bohn is nowhere to be seen but the tealight path terminates just short of the table, where several significant items have been neatly arranged in a circle of rose petals.

Three small plates holding the same three cakes (orange, strawberry, cherry-topped chocolate) that he’d eaten with Bohn at Cafe I Love U. 

A vase of red rosebuds.

A small velvet box.

A card in a pastel pink envelope marked DUEN.

With trembling hands Duen picks up the envelope and slips a forefinger under the flap to ease it open. The card inside is pink too, with a single embossed rose on the cover. It’s so simple yet so lovely. Duen traces its raised lines with a fingertip, already knowing that he’ll give it a place of honor on his bedside table. He admires it for another long moment, both because it’s beautiful and because he’s afraid of what the message inside might be. 

This is Bohn, after all. It could be “Marry me.” It could be “I’m waiting naked in the bedroom with a Slip n’ Slide made of lube.” 

When he opens it, though, filled with hope and trepidation, the handwritten message is neither of those things.

 _Sweetheart,_ it begins, and Duen is already weeping.

> _Sweetheart, I don’t always know the right thing to say or do. Please forgive me when I get it wrong. You think I’m experienced, but the truth is I’ve never loved anyone before. And you know I’m an idiot, so I have a lot to learn._
> 
> _Maybe you can teach me?_
> 
> _All my love,_  
>  _Bohn_ _  
> __  
> P.S. You should turn around now._

“I hope you have a handkerchief,” Duen says shakily before he turns.

Bohn is standing just a few feet away, dressed in a deep-blue button-up shirt left untucked over torn black jeans. His feet are bare. His hands are raised and pressed together palm to palm, almost in wai position except for the single long-stemmed rose between them.

In the faux candlelight his eyes too seem aglow, fixed unwaveringly on Duen. He’s unsmiling, his full lower lip caught nervously between his teeth.

He looks so handsome and flustered that Duen could just expire on the spot from the flood of love that overflows his heart.

“Surprise?” Bohn ventures, at the same instant Duen holds out his arms and says, “Get over here.”

Bohn comes to him then, and Duen begins to weep even harder because he’s _trembling_. His cocky, self-assured boyfriend is literally shaking in his arms, cheek pressed to Duen’s shoulder and one arm twining eagerly around Duen’s waist. His other hand holds the rose clear until Duen takes it and fumbles it onto the table behind him in his eagerness to have Bohn embrace him fully. They hug each other close, not a hair’s breadth of distance between their bodies, Duen’s hands stroking soothing patterns on Bohn’s back and Bohn just pulling him in tighter, tighter, repeatedly saying his name.

“I do have a handkerchief,” he murmurs close to Duen’s ear after they’ve held one another long enough to synchronize their breathing. “It’s in my trouser pocket, but I swear that’s not a come-on.”

With a breathless laugh Duen draws back just enough to investigate the pocket, his fingers catching the hem of the hanky without needing to delve too deep. Not that he needs to pick Bohn’s pocket to know the state of his arousal; held so closely he can’t help but be aware that Bohn is hard. He can’t suppress a little thrill at the knowledge, oddly proud that touching him affects Bohn so profoundly that the campus playboy is erect from a simple fully-clothed hug.

Bohn releases him to arm’s length with obvious reluctance while Duen dabs at his teary eyes. “Please don’t cry,” he says, wiping Duen’s cheek gently with the back of his hand. “Gorgeous boys should never cry.”

“They’re happy tears,” Duen assures him. “This is all so beautiful, Bohn, I just—I don’t even know what to say. Except that I love it.”

“I love you.” The words come out a little fast, a little ragged, and Bohn’s face registers enough to surprise to tip off Duen that he didn’t mean to say them just yet. But Bohn swallows hard and recovers, straightening his shoulders and repeating it with more volume and conviction. “I love you, Duen, and I’m so sorry I made you uncomfortable when you slept over. I didn’t mean to rush you. Can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” To hide his nervousness, Duen turns to the table and picks up the rose again, holding it to his lips. “My handsome boyfriend wants to kiss me. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just wasn’t ready. I hope you can understand?”

Bohn nods solemnly, covering Duen’s hand with his own on the rose stem. “I can, but you have to talk to me too. I think we’ve hurt each other by not talking. Duen…” He brings their joined hands to his lips, conferring a brief soft kiss to Duen’s fingers that feels like a blessing made manifest. “I’m a physical person, OK? We don’t have to have sex. We don’t even have to kiss yet. But it might help you to understand that I’m just calmer and happier if you touch me. Even if it’s just to hold onto my wrist or put your head on my shoulder. Just so I know you _like_ me.”

The laugh that escapes Duen is too high, too startled. “Like you? Bohn, if I liked you any more I’d go up in flames.”

And there it is, that sweetest smile, lighting up Bohn’s face as brightly as the candles in the room. “Really?”

“Really.” This time Duen is the one to kiss their linked fingers. “Now do I get to see what’s in that little box? I warn you, if it’s an engagement ring I’m leaving.”

“It’s not,” Bohn says with a grin. “But I can still go down on one knee if you want me to.”

 _Or both,_ Duen thinks wildly, and the accompanying mental image is probably the most risque thought he’s ever had in his life. He feels his cheeks flame as he mumbles, “That won’t be necessary.”

“All right then. Look.” Standing close behind him to reach the tabletop, Bohn takes up the velvet box and pops it open. 

On a tiny pillow of white satin rests a silver rose on a chain. Bohn catches the chain between thumb and forefinger and holds it aloft, the little stylized rose rotating with the movement.

“It’s beautiful,” Duen breathes. “I love it. Put it on for me?”

“Yes, but look here first.” Bohn shows him an extra ring of chain near the rose, sturdier than the rest with its own spring-lever clasp. “This is for the condo key. I know you like to wear it around your neck and I thought this would be prettier.”

“I love it,” Duen repeats. _I love you,_ he thinks, but he feels too overwrought to say it just yet. But he obediently ducks his head for Bohn to place the chain around his neck, shivering when soft lips touch his nape as the clasp clicks closed and the slight weight of the rose pendant settles at the hollow of his throat.

He turns in Bohn’s arms, bringing both hands up to cup his boyfriend’s face. “Bohn, do you want to kiss me?” he asks.

“ _Forever_ ,” says Bohn fiercely. Then more softly, “Forever.”

They’re already so close that all it takes for their lips to touch is Duen tipping up his chin and Bohn leaning in. And...there.

There.

Oh, _there_.

With a deep sigh that seems to come from his very soul, Duen closes his eyes and melts into the kiss as though he’s always known how. He slips one hand into Bohn’s hair, trails the other down to Bohn’s chest, and lets the kiss and Bohn become his whole world. 

So soft. So soft and tentative at first, that kiss, from someone as boldly confident as Bohn. And yet hasn’t Duen always known, somehow, that the confidence runs only skin deep? A thin veneer of braggadocio over a vulnerable, needy boy who yearns so desperately to be loved. 

_I do love you,_ he tells Bohn with his lips, parting in sweet surrender to the lightest teasing touch of Bohn’s tongue. 

_I do want you,_ he tells Bohn with his hands, fingers tangling in Bohn’s hair to tug him just that much closer.

 _I do desire you,_ he tells Bohn with his body, pressing his hips more firmly against Bohn’s as the kiss lingers on, not provocatively but with simple fearless acceptance of Bohn’s strong body and obvious arousal. 

Whatever the question, he tells Bohn in all the sweet and silent ways a kiss can tell, the answer is _I do, I do, I do._


End file.
